So I Met Alec Track
by KiplingKat
Summary: In response to a fanfic challenge: What would happen if I met Dr. Alec Track of "The Golden Hour"?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimers: _

_A. Don't own Alec Track or "The Golden Hour" - verse, not making any money off this, and have severe doubts anyone could. _

_B. This story was written as a great conceit. I believe strongly in the rule of fanfic that reads: "No one gives a crap about your Mary Sue.", but we were presented with a challenge on the IMDB Richard Armitage board: "You'll Never Guess Who I Ran Into…" in which "we can imagine what it would be like to bump into one of RA's characters and what occurs." So I came up with this story and a couple others, and have decided to move them here so they do not get lost. I beg forgiveness, and hope that readers can use my Mary Sue as a lens through which to get to know these characters better. _

_For those interested in the character of Alec, all four episodes of "The Golden Hour" are up on YouTube. _

Part I

They say everything seems to move in slow motion when you have a major accident.

They lie.

A split second between you know something has gone horribly wrong and ...SLAM!BANG! and _The world is fuzzy. Why is the world fuzzy?_

I blink my eyes to clear my vision, and suddenly half my world goes red opaque. Burned rubber and oil and a coppery scent fill my nose.

I hear voices, people starting to gather around my car. Lots of "Are you alright?" followed by gasping and murmuring. Then one makes himself heard. Not a yell, just a very distinct command.

"Let me though. I'm a doctor."

And then that voice is in my ear.

"Hi…"

The voice paused. That's not a good sign.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?" Northern, a deep northern voice with a slight nasal edge, but I can't place the accent exactly tho'.

I tell him.

"Don't turn your head. Just stay still. O.K. _Kip_. My name is Alec, I'm with the London Air Ambulance…"

"That was quick."

"Well, my mates and I were just in a pub down the road."

"Sorry to cut into your off hours." _What wrong with my foot?_

"American? Naz? Naz! I need a pressure bandage. See if the pub has some clean towels. So what are you doing on this side of the Atlantic?" he asks as I feel cool fingers gently prod their way down my neck. _F-kF-kF-kF-k! My foot is really starting to kill me._

Someone else is there. "The other driver is pissed. Can't tell what is a concussion and what's beer, but otherwise he's fine." This voice is local.

"They always are. Thanks," Alec replies.

"Grabbed 'em on the way out."

"Guys? My foot is really starting to kill me."

"Your foot?" the second voice asks incredulously.

"Hold that. I'll take a look." The baritone moves away.

"Hi." We replay introductions as Naz, I find his name to be, presses a scratchy towel to my forehead. _Ouch._ "Can you tell me where you were going?"

"Back to my apartment."

"A Yank. Don't get many of those. What are you doing over here?"

"That's what I want to know." Alec's voice is muffled from the left now, he's moved around to the other side of the car.

"Maritime History program at Greenwhich," I answer. Not that they care of course, they're just asking me consciousness questions, trying to gauge how aware I am and keep me that aware.

There's a creak and a wrench, and a big dark blurry shape slides across the passenger seat, shining a penlight down at the drivers pedals.

"Well, it's not caught. Can you move your toes?"

The attempt to do so results in a profanity. "...That was novel. Sorry," I end sheepishly.

"Heard worse." He's feeling his way across my ankle.

"Oh please say it was a sailor."

There is a deep chuckle, interrupted by a gasp and "OW! F-K! OW!" from me when his fingers delicately slide across the top of my foot.

"Did you hit the brake just before you impacted?"

"…Yeah, probably."

"I'd say you were probably standing on it. When you hit, all your weight went into your foot. You've broken the bones along the top…"

"Metatarsals," I inject automatically.

"Ooh, smart lady," Naz observes archly.

"Anthropology major. Osteology class." _Can he hear me over the siren?_

"Well, Miss Anthropology major, you're going to take a ride in an ambulance."

"Damn. I was hoping for a helicopter ride."

"Sorry, foreign dignitaries have to schedule their visits in advance for the premier treatment. You're just going to have to make do with the truck."

There's another chuckle from somewhere around my knees. Naz switches off with the paramedics to get gloves on and then comes back to switch the towel out for a bandage.

"Ah." I can feel Alec's arm brush under my thigh and back out again. "Do you normally wear glasses?"

…_They aren't on my face?_ "Yes."

"That's what did it," he says to Naz. "Face went into the steering wheel and jammed the edge of her glasses into her eyelid. Tore it."

_..and head wounds bleed like a S.O.B.. So that's why everything is red on the right._

"Trauma isn't going to…?"

"No. I wouldn't let anyone but a plastic surgeon near that. Just clean it, pack it, and leave it to the experts."

"Sounds fine by me."

"Thanks." I can hear the latex snap as Alec pulls on a pair gloves. As he feels up the leg and checks the other foot for any further breaks, Naz puts a collar on me. _Gawd. I hate these things._ Alec unlatches the buckle on the seatbelt which mercifully still works. I begin to discern the more gentle tone he takes on when addressing me as opposed to his co-worker. "We're about to move you out of the car. Now's the time to tell me if it hurts anywhere else."

"…No, I don't think so."

"Good." He slides out of the car for a moment and there's a quick conference with the paramedics. And then he's back.

"I'm going to grab you under your arms and drag you across, o.k.?"

"Yeah."

He leans me forward just enough to slide an arm around my back and in my dazed state, shock is a lovely thing sometimes, I pick up his scent. It's a nice scent. Warm and crisp, like a hearth-fire as November sets in.

"Ready?"

"Uh-huh."

And before I can even think to do something other than just hang there like a ragdoll, _I'm-being-dragged-across-the-passenger-seat-onto-a-backboard_. And then I'm being strapped down.

"Do you always pick up girls this quick?...O.k. That was a perfectly wretched joke. Now I know I have a concussion."

He grins.

_Wow._

_That's a smile a woman would make a damn fool of herself for._

...(To be continued)


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

Sewing eyelids back on is low priority, I guess. So after being thoroughly poked, prodded, X-rayed, and given a deeper appreciation for the 19th century British soldier with his leather stock (what in Gawd name were they thinking?) before finally getting the piece of hard plastic out from under my jaw and a hard piece of fiberglass wrapped around my leg, I'm rolled into a ward and tucked into a bed around what must be close to dawn.

I wake from a doze with the memory of the other car. Not the accident itself or the momentary terror of the moment before, but afterward. The jerking motion it made a couple moments after I picked my head up from the steering wheel.

Jerking backward.

The son of a bitch tried to drive away.

I don't know if it the notion that there such horrible people in the world or just the memory itself that pushes me over the edge, but suddenly I'm sobbing. I'm sobbing and I'm miserable and there's no one and I really wish someone would hold me and the wonderful man with the brilliant smile and the nice scent and comforting voice is probably sleeping somewhere not giving a stupid Yank a second thought...

"Hullo...oh hey."

He doesn't hold me, but he does sit on the edge of the bed and hold my hand as he briefly rummages through the drawers of the bed stand for a box of tissues.

That coverall is very orange.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why..." Oh gawd. I am actually blubbering.

He shushes me and strokes my hair. "I spoke with the duty nurse in the A&E. She said you were a brick through the entire thing, but you've just been through a traumatic experience and that involves more than just your physical injuries. I'm impressed you went this long."

I sniffle pitifully and try to blot my nose as elegantly as one can. "I'm a mess."

He smiles gently, a curious curve of closed lips that on another man would be a smirk, but on him seems rather warm and sweet. "Yes. Yes, you are. But considering you had a head on collision, not a bad one. Other than your foot, nothing is broken. Terrible jokes aside, not even a concussion. And...hold on..." He fishes something out of his breast pocket. "I got them as straight as I could." He hands me my glasses.

"Thank you, that's very kind of you."

Because of the bandage I can't actually wear them, but I do hold them up to the one free eye to finally get a clear look at my companion who gives a little smile and a wave. The dark hair is utilitarian short, wash and go, though he does use a bit of gel to keep it somewhat fashionably in place. The longish face and soft angled jaw line are given definition by the chiseled lines of his eyes, nose, and lips resulting in handsomeness that is neither brutishly masculine nor androgynously pretty, but a perfect balance in between. The grey eyes regarding me are filled with somewhat amused, yet kindly, confidence. I am the stranger in his strange land and he wants to make me feel comfortable in his home.

"Is there anyone you can call?"

"No." The sniffles begin to abate. "No one local. I've only been here a few weeks. I had to call my new vet to find someone to look in on Pilot."

"Your dog?"

"Yeah, she's still getting used to city living. Hopefully that means she isn't territorial enough to give a complete stranger coming into the apartment a hard time."

"You brought her all the way from the States?"

"My best friend, wouldn't you?"

"Haven't had one since I lived at home. Too busy. Too much on the move. It wouldn't have been fair."

"Where's home?"

"Rutland, originally. I haven't lived there since college, but still get home when I can."

"Which isn't much I take it. I know what holidays are like for you guys."

"Do you?" His mild surprise coloured by skepticism.

"My brother is a paramedic - firefighter in our hometown. He's the captain of the paramedic squad and lives near the station, so he takes a lot of holiday shifts." _And I suspect you do too. You seem like the type._ "So what drew you out of the Midlands?"

"Cambridge."

"Oh."Cambridge," says he nonchalantly."

He looks away shyly. "It's just a school."

"It's one of the most prestigious Universities in the world and to get into the medical program there is no mean feat."

"I didn't go there because of the name," he injects defensively. "It had the best program. As far as teaching methods, teaching students to rely on their own judgment, a lot of what they were doing then a lot of other medical schools are doing now."

"Yeah, but you can't tell me getting that piece of sheepskin with "Cambridge School of Medicine" on it didn't make you puff up with pride just a little."

"Cambridge School of *Clinical* Medicine," he corrects and smirks slyly as he holds his fingers up as if pinching something. We share an amused grin before he checks his pager and leaps up.

"I have to go. I was just stopping by before my shift started."

"Well it was nice t.."

"I check back on you later," he says quickly as he strides away.

"Oh...kaaay. I'll see you then. I guess."

It's a few hours later and they swear the plastic surgeon will be along any minute, when his head pops back around the curtain.

"Hullo. Hasn't he come through yet?"

"I get the impression that was a jam up of lip injections and breast implants at the office."

The smile is present, but it's faint and weary around the edges as he hands me a tea and he sits on the edge of my bed again. "Dr. Randall is the best, worth the wait. When he's done with you, you won't even be able to tell that it happened."

"I just hope my eyelashes grow back."

There's an awkward pause.

"So do you know how you're getting home?"

"Cab I suppose. I guess they're used to picking up people in hospital smocks from here."

"The A&E is rather hard on clothes."

"Accidents are rather hard on clothes, it was covered in blood anyway. So what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing," he replies is bit too hurriedly. I set my tea down as I wait him out. "I'm just hiding, really. I was supposed to get a report into an administrator this morning and I just did not want to deal..."

"Bad call?"

"...Yeah, bad call."

"Look, I don't do what you do. I don't think I could. But I can listen."

"There's not much to tell really." He stares into his cup. "Some idiot running late cuts off a minivan on the M1. Next thing you know you have twelve cars piling up at 55 miles per hour. Thirteen injured, four causalities. Including two kids."

I say nothing but reach over to take his hand, watching the square palm and long fingers encompass mine. He squeezes back.

"You can't care too much in this job or it will eat you alive," he reminds himself, sipping his tea.

"But if you don't care at all you can't empathize with your patients to treat them properly, both as injuries and as people, let alone get up every morning and come to work. It's a fine line you tread."

He says nothing and after a long a pause I continue. "I majored in both anthropology and history, and if there is one thing I see in my line of work, it's the inevitability of deadly human stupidity. But while mankind carries with him the capacity to be just morons, and all too often dangerous ones, he also carries with him a vast capacity for kindness, compassion, intelligence, and skill...and people like you who stand between him and his worser nature. You're out manned in that war and can't win every battle, but you put up one hell of a fight and you do win a lot."

He gives me a little smile in thanks and then tries to shake it off, withdrawing his hand. "So what have you been up to?"

I let it go. "Reading mostly. Thanks to you." I hold up the glasses. "And the police who brought my things from my poor car."

"Something for school?"

"No, I'm being positively naughty and engaging in...*shhh* recreational reading."

"Unless things have changed drastically since I was in school that is a crime of epic proportions. What are you reading?"

I hold up Neil Stephenson's "Diamond Age" to a see his brows knit quizzically.

"It basically explores the transmission of culture in the future through various means, including nano-technology, and the how humans receive and react to culture. Nurture vs. nature, social programming vs. free will. How new cultures may emerge in the future."

"You like Science Fiction?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. Well, I don't read it, just watch the shows. I grew up watching Doctor Who like any proper British boy. Star Wars. Blakes 7. Watched Star Trek through college. X-Files. Matrix. Lord of the Rings. Though that's fantasy."

"Do you have the Extended Editions?"

"I occasionally have weekend marathons."

"I can never decide whether to just watch the film or listen to the cast commentary."

There's the smile.

We chat excitedly for several minutes like a couple of geek kids. I know what he walked in with has not been forgotten, but he's been able to put it away somewhere so that he can go back to work, which sadly comes too soon as his pager goes off.

"I have to go. Thanks..."

He leans in.

And then stops himself, a momentary expression of shock flashing through his eyes before he darts out again without another word.

It takes me a moment to process what just happened. _Did he just lean in to kiss me?_

…


	3. Chapter 3

Part III

I mull over that moment for a while. All through my surgery in fact. I have to, since they gave me a local and won't let me watch. (The stuff on TV these days and they're worried about someone getting faint during their own surgery. I mean, really.) It happened so fast, I'm 50% convinced that I didn't see anything at all and 45% convinced that he was just leaning in for a hug. But that 5% has me grinning from ear to ear for a moment.

"What so funny?" the surgeon asks.

"Nothing."

After enjoying the glow, I force reality to set in. It would not be the first time I have misread a man's friendly intent for something more, though it's usually the flirtatious types that get those messages confused. While Alec is warm and friendly, he is definitely not a flirt. But, as I look at my bruised face in the mirror, now with 27 tiny black stitches in my eyelid replacing my eyelashes, I'm not exactly the sort of girl one risks one's career over.

Oh yes. Professional ethics.

Damn them all.

So it is with a wistful sigh I bundle everything into my backpack after I have been discharged.

"Oh good, I caught you. Let's have a look. May I?" I can feel Alec's long fingers splaying through my hair as he tips my head back slightly and surveys the sutures appreciatively. "Nice work. I told you he was the best. What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

He lets me go and pulls something from one of the many huge pockets in his coverall. Then suddenly, adorably, he seems a little unsure.

"I, uh, brought you one of my t-shirts. So you won't be subjected to public scrutiny in pastel polkadots."

"Again, that's very kind of you. Thank you." He steps to the far side of the curtain as I pull it closed to change. "I'll wash it and get it back to you."

"No need. It just a vest really, I get them in a six pack."

_Calvin Klein. Expensive six pack._ But I say nothing, tucking the white v-neck into my jeans, one half of which has recently become a pair of shorts to get over my cast. It's not a tent on me, but it does need to be tucked in to...bring out some of my better features.

"Well I appreciate it. You have no idea," I say as I pull the curtain back. "There are many things I can withstand, but pastels are not one of them. I had enough that, and neon, as a teenager."

"Don't remind me." He shudders comically, studiously keeping his eyes above my collarbone after a quick glance. After I refuse a chair, he carries my backpack down to the exit as I get to know using crutches for the first time in a while. It's all rather charmingly "high school" as we chat about our embarrassing clothing and musical tastes from that era. And even more reluctantly admitting some of the musical tastes still cling.

"No, you seriously do not know the lengths to which I go to hide it." He leans in conspiratorially. "If Naz realized that the "West African Rhythms" playlist on my iPod was actually a bunch of 1980's dance music, I would never hear the end of it. Ever."

"West African?"

"I did a tour with Medicines Sans Frontiers a few years ago in Liberia, Sierra Leone. It's the perfect cover."

"…Wow. That's rough duty."

He shrugs noncommittally. Whether in humility or avoidance of the topic, I can't tell.

After reception calls a cab, we head outside where he deposits my bag on a bench.

"Well, I should get back to work." He looks at me regretfully.

"Yeah," I reply lamely, looking at my toes wiggling in my cast. _Oh this is pathetic._ "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get a cup of coffee or something. Your next day off, I mean."

Suddenly he is extremely unsure, shifting uncomfortably and glancing down, taking a deep breath before looking me dead in the eyes (_Wow, blue. His eyes have gone pale sky blue._) and launching into, "Look, you must understand you've just been through a very dramatic experience, one that naturally left you feeling very vulnerable. You may be confusing feelings of comfort and gratitude for a false sense of intimacy..."

I let him paternally pontificate on in this vein for a few minutes, his head tilted downward to meet my eyes as if trying very hard to explain something complicated to a small child.

Condescending, but cute.

Because what is pointedly missing from this well-rehearsed speech was even the slightest indication of a lack of interest, which I know is what is advised in these situations: A gentle but clear and firm brush off. And a doctor this good looking has had to have dealt with this situation more than a few times. But it's not there. Not even an "I'm flattered but..." statement. _Not "I don't want this," but the assumption "You're making a mistake."_

I nod sagely as he comes to a rather eloquent finish about "...my true feelings sorting themselves out once I've had a few days to reflect."

"Are you finished?"

"Er..." He blinks in surprise.

"First of all, don't tell me how I feel," I reply. "That's really annoying. Secondly, this is not the first time I have been injured. However, this *is* the first time I have found someone in the hospital attractive. And third, we got about as "intimate" as two complete strangers trapped in an elevator for an hour. I don't make life decisions based on an hour of conversation, but I will ask someone to lunch on it. You were barely my doctor for all of 15 minutes almost 20 hours ago. You are certainly not my doctor now. So..." I lean forward slightly, looking up at him condescendingly as he had just looked down at me, jamming my hands deep into my front pockets in a seemingly innocuous move that is a guaranteed cleavage attention draw. "You can stop with the psychiatric analysis, stop trying quite so hard to not eye the way I fill out your t-shirt, and call me after your shift is over...Or don't. In any case, thanks for everything and it was very nice to meet you."

If I could have rocked up onto my tip toes, I would have finished what he started earlier. As it is, I have to settle for sticking my hand out, which he shakes briefly and then strides back inside without another word.

Upon catching sight of myself in the reflective windows of the building, I congratulate the British pharmaceutical industry. _Did I really just make a pass at a staggeringly handsome man looking like that? Oh Gawd."_

...


	4. Chapter 4

Part IV

Needless to say I run home and look up what the restrictions are on doctors dating former patients. (Well, after falling into bed and sleeping for ten hours that is. Thank gawd it a weekend. Thank gawd I forgot to notify the puppy sitter that I was home and she came by anyway.) But it seems like Alec and I would fall into a grey area. He was not my doctor such that I was sharing intimate details with him "that could be used to influence my decisions." But he did treat me, so…

It's a grey area and Alec doesn't seem the type to take that big of a risk. Not with something as important to him as his career.

So you can forgive me for a little whoop of joy a couple days later when I ring into my voice mail and instead of hearing the voice of a classmate, I hear, "Hullo _Kip_, this is Alec…" There may have been a bit of dancing (…well, o.k. butt wiggling since I'm not that mobile) but there are no witnesses and you can't prove it.

After a bit of phone tag and a call that stretches into almost two hours of free ranging conversation covering work, school, current movies, old movies, music, English politics, American politics, the history of the Middle East (of which he is pleasantly well-informed), we arrange to meet at a coffee shop near campus after his next shift.

This works great for me since by that time my bruises have almost completely faded, something Alec observes almost immediately when he reaches my table. After apologizing. He's late, but given his line of work I'm not surprised and used the time to finish a chapter outline. He's more subdued out of the brilliant orange coverall, but he still stands out. He's obviously taken some care with the casual, clean lines of his clothes and his hair. Simple, functional, but still elegant. Getting the job done is first priority, but that has not completely overwhelmed his self image as an attractive male.

The smile is there, though it is guarded, something I attribute to the long shift that put the slight shadow under his eyes.

But today's conversation is somewhat desultory to the point I'm almost forced to making comments about the weather until he takes a deep breath, sets his coffee cup aside, and tilts his head forward with that condescending look.

_Oh no. Not again._

"_Kip_. I really enjoy this, and I really like you, but there is something you need to understand. My job comes first. People's lives depend on it. That means a lot more than just a weird schedule. When I am at work, I have to be able to be completely there, in that moment, and focused. I can't be distracted about having to call you at a set time or…"

I suppress the sigh, letting him natter on about how much of his life his job consumes and how important it is to him and that he has to be free to devote his full attention to his job, all the while leaving the vague impression that it would not be fair to me. _How nice of him to decide that for me. Again_. Until he notices my expression, and my fingers drumming on the table, and stumbles awkwardly to a stop.

I let the silence stretch on uncomfortably, until, affecting my most bewildered expression, I hold up my cinnamon double latte, point to it, and say, "Coffee."

He drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I've just been a complete prat, haven't I?"

He has, but given that his mind raced that far forward in a panic, I know I'm in pretty good standing. His neurosis just needs assuaging. I chuckle a little and sit back in my chair.

"If you had another profession, then I might have a problem with taking second place. But you save lives. I understand that is not a job, it's a calling and trying to stand in the way of someone and their calling just makes everyone unhappy. I told you that my brother is a paramedic, yeah? That means I know that my sister in law spends her holidays with the kids but not her husband, and that even on his days off he sometimes gets called in so she can never be entirely sure when he is going to be there. And when he does get home he's often exhausted and wrung out and no, they do not get all his attention and energy as soon as he walks in the door. He honestly does try and he's a great Dad, but it's a fact of life that the station is a part of their all their lives and they live around that. But then I also come from a military family, so I am used to the mindset of sharing people I care about with a job, an organization, a calling. I know the score. I know what I am looking at. So as far as your work goes, I'm taking you as you are. So far as your work goes."

I let that one hang in the air. He deserves it and he has the good grace to look chastised.

"Should I ask what brought this on?"

He clears his throat and leans forward on his elbows, looking into his coffee cup, "When you work in the medical profession, you don't meet a lot of people. Well, you meet them, but you meet them on their worst days, and they're patients so... So the people you get to know, to talk to and trust, are other doctors, nurses…"

"You dated a co-worker." I wave him forward.

He looks a bit disconcerted. "Yeah. I did. And it.…well, it was a disaster. Professionally. And personally, but definitely professionally."

"It usually is."

He flashes me a _You don't need to rub it in_ look, so I shut up.

"She was on my team, a subordinate." I refrain from saying _You idiot_. It's one thing for him to have dated someone at the hospital, but for him to have dated a subordinate he was lucky to keep his job. "And when it came out that we were seeing each other, I lost one doctor to another shift, and I was so caught up in trying to make things work with her and the job I didn't see that another team member was in trouble. I knew he was having a hard time personally, but I just did not think it would get to the point it affected his work." He shakes his head at my questioning expression. "I can't discuss the specifics, but the end result was *she* went into surgery rotation, *he* went on suspension, and *I* went to the Central African Republic for six months."

"Ouch. Another tour with M.S.F.?" He nods. "But you got your shift back."

"Provisionally at first. Needless to say the administration was not pleased and I had to prove myself all over again. I got Naz back, tho'. He was always a fantastic doctor, loads of potential, and he grew up a lot through it so I'm glad to have him."

"And the one you were seeing?"

"She's getting married in a couple months, I think," he says speculatively, but without regret. "I couldn't give her what she wanted. I tried, I did care about her, wanted to make her happy, but it was never enough. By the end I felt like I had been shoved into some place I did not want to be."

I sigh.

_And you assume I want what she did._

I know better than to bad mouth the ex. There is simply no way to do it without looking like a crass jealous cow, so I let the observation that if she worked with him she should have bloody well known what she was getting into pass. It's like picking up a guy at a biker bar and then expecting him give up his motorcycle. _Woman, what the hell were you thinking?_

"How long ago was this?"

"Two...and half years, just about. Yeah."

"And I take it you have not been in a relationship since?"

He shakes his head. "I've gone on a few dates but…" he shrugs and then rubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking as tired as he probably is. "I don't know why I blurted all that rubbish out, you didn't need to deal with that."

"Yeeeah. Well, not yet," I agree. "But obviously you needed to say it and in general I approve of someone telling me where they are coming from at the outset so I can make choices based on all the information at hand. You jumped the gun a little, made some arrogant assumptions about what I did not understand and I will make up my mind about what's fair for me, thank you." I nudge his knee with my good foot. "But it would have come up eventually."

"Sorry."

"S'okay. There is a reason it's calling "dating" and not "in a relationship." At this point, you do what you do and I do what I do and we'll just see how everything settles out."

"Fair enough. How were your classes?" He switches the subject, swiftly moving away from his embarrassment.

"Fine. You know how it is. Some professors were very understanding, and then there's that one that requires you to present your death certificate before he allows you to take a makeup exam. I got the work for that one caught up first, and even got ahead on the reading thank the Gods."

"So how did you get into Naval History, anyway?"

The rest of the time goes much more pleasantly as "a coffee" becomes two and the time slips away until I have a study session. Once he loosens up, he's fun to talk with. Not only intelligent, but so many experiences, and decent sense of humor to boot. Plus I have to stifle a delighted smile when I realize during an explanation of the chemical reaction between yeast and sugars (discussing college dorm forays into brewing of various types) that he doesn't talk with his hands, he talks with his fingers. The hands don't move overmuch, but when they do, the focal point are his long slender fingers which are pointing, swirling, interlacing, caged. And when they are not in motion, he is cracking his knuckles. Ah, the adorable peculiarities one discovers.

I take him up on his offer to drop me off on campus so we can continue talking about the places we've traveled to. Until he falls silent as he helps me out of the car and hands me my crutches.

"You got quiet all of a sudden." I say, hanging onto the car door.

He rubs his neck and looks at me with wry ruefulness, "Well. Let's see. I was late. I preemptively set rules for a relationship that does not exist yet, and I talked about my ex. I'm trying to figure out if there was any other way I had screwed this up or whether I should smash your hand in the car door."

"You haven't kissed me yet." I push my glasses back on my head as hook my finger in his shirt front. "Get down here silly."

Oh...

WOW!

Those are about the only thoughts that go through my head after the first gentle touch of his lips to mine. What starts sweet swiftly becomes sensual, persuasively drawing the embers between us out into an open flame until we part, both shaken and holding onto one another as we try to catch our breath. There's a dark wanting that flashes through his eyes that sends sparks down my spine to wonderful places, but it's quickly banked behind something solid and controlled.

"Well," I say once I shake myself out of the daze. "That will forgive a multitude of sins. But you still owe me dinner."

He says nothing but gives a small, almost sad, smile and kisses me briefly, soft and sweet again, before handing me my crutches and saying, "See you!" with an overt casualness and getting in the car and driving off.

Yet again leaving me to wonder what the heck just happened.


	5. Chapter 5

Part V

Jeremy Irons once said, "When you meet an Italian man, you open the door and there he is. You meet an Englishman, you open the door...and there's another door. And after about six doors, you finally meet the man."

Despite Alec falling through the one door with a resounding thud, I can see I have at least seven more to go. Maybe eight. The question is which doors to wait patiently in front of, which to coax him out of, and which to take a pry bar too.

Case in point, I have not heard from him in a week.

I'm tempted to call, but I hate those _"Hi, I was just calling to say Hi. Oh, I already said it."_ phone calls which would be especially pathetic sounding in this situation. I'm also leery of pushing after what he said about his last relationship which explained why he's dancing around this. The man is seriously gun shy.

So get my stitches out and I keep my head in my books and try to forget what his lips felt like. And his smile, and his voice, and that wonderfully goofy laugh, and yes I answered his call in the middle of the library.

"I'm sorry. My shift ended and I was completely knackered. I was dead asleep until I got a phone call from an old mate of mine who needed a hand working on his roof and I stayed on to watch the match and by the time I got free from that it was really late and the next morning I knew you were in class..."

I'm beginning to suspect Alec's natural reaction to nerves is to blather, so I let him as I hobble over to a fairly remote area of the stacks where I slide down the book shelves and sit on the floor.

"Alec."

"Yes?"

"No big deal. Really."

"Why are you talking so quietly?"

The conversation is necessarily brief as we arrange to see each other again.

"Well, I won't subject you to my museum fetish and I'm afraid dancing is out at the moment," I summarize.

"Does that mean they turn you on, or are you sexually attracted to them?"

So we go the terribly pedestrian route of dinner and movie and drinks at quiet little pub afterward.

Though I have dessert first by snogging him as soon as he shows up on my doorstep.

But now I'm lecturing from my favorite spot. That is: Perched on a barstool, which is the only real place to lecture. "…as much as the literati want to deny it, comic books are part and parcel of birth of American culture. At the same time we were embracing jazz and starting our love affair with cars, we also created Superman which is essentially an analogy for our immigrant populations."

From the next stool over Alec smirks indulgently, probably he realizing he owes me a lecture or two. "And what does that say about America, I wonder?"

I pick up my crutch from where it leans against the bar. "I'm armed."

"And there's another statement." He chuckles wryly into his beer.

"I know it's in vogue to bash on the 800 lb. gorilla and some of it is certainly deserved in recent years, but must you snub the colonials? Sometimes it's like you guys are the Vorlons are something."

He almost chokes on his beer with laughter. "I know we "talk funny" to you, but I think we communicate in more than cryptic monosyllables."

"I think because you guys are the parent culture there is still some level of awe in the U.S. for the U.K. Culturally at any rate, if not politically. And occasionally you all play the role up."

He smirks guiltily. "Occasionally. Are you saying you don't deserve it?"

I smile just as guiltily. "Occasionally."

"To be fair, despite your reputations the U.S. is not the biggest problem in the global theatre." He approaches the subject slowly. "You can't work in a place like the western Africa and not feel some level of cultural shame for how the imperial nations screwed over the indigenous population, and when you still see it happening. In places where the European governments and armies have left, the transnational corporations keep encouraging and exploiting the instability. They own the World Trade Organization, they throw gobs of money at the local governments promising jobs and tax revenue, so there is no oversight to protect indigenous industries to allow a country to become self-sufficient, to create a sustainable economy, sustainable lives for the local people. Which leads to people getting very angry, and very violent."

"Is that what was happening in the Central African Republic?"

He nods. "The average income, per captia, is about 460 pounds a year. Africa has some of the greatest natural resources in the world and if the first world would just get out of their way, nations there could be a global power rather than tearing themselves to bits every ten years."

"Can I ask what happened to you?"

He breathes deep and slowly lets it out, considering what to say. "I worked. I worked my arse off. I remember reading a statistic that the hospital had done something like 200 surgeries a day when the war was at its height and being amazed that someone actually had the time to keep count."

"Was it very different from what you do here?"

He looks at me with appraising thoughtfulness. "No, it wasn't. It was on some levels. The violence the people lived with everyday was appalling, not only from the conflict itself, but from gangs of bandits filling in the territories not controlled by the government or the rebel forces. And the poverty these people live in, it's unimaginable to someone from the West. But on another level I see horrible things happening to people every day. It was frustrating as hell in that I did not have the equipment I have here, and in manpower we were completely overwhelmed. But in terms of what I was dealing with, I wasn't seeing anything different really. Just more GSW's and stabbings rather than auto accidents." He takes a long drink. "It's weird in a way, that I not more scarred by it. That I came home and, after sleeping for a week, fell back into my…normal life, such as it is, rather quickly. It's something I experienced, but it's not something that haunts me and the fact that sort of violence exists in the world, it should be," he finishes with a soft note of genuine concern.

I lean on my elbows looking at him, "I spoke with a veteran of the Korean War once about how soldiers dealt with fighting for their lives and taking life after they came home. And he said that he just didn't bring it home with him. He could talk about what he had done, but emotionally it was "on another planet" was the way he put it. I don't know if that applies, but at the very least realize that everyone reacts to and deals with extreme experiences in their own ways. As you say, bodily trauma is your job. You see violence, whether deliberate or accidental, done to people every day. You're *not* a callous man, that much is evident." I reach over to touch his arm. "Perhaps you just see all suffering as equal."

There is a pause he as considers this, then quickly he rubs his eyes, "Jeezus, I that was more serious than I intended this evening to be."

"You needed to talk about it. I would tell you to "go forth and fret no more,"" I make vague sign of the cross at him and smile ruefully. "…but I suspect that is not going to happen."

"Am I lost cause then?"

"Yes, but St. Jude will have to learn to share." I lean in for a forgiving smooch, which he accepts.

I watch him in the mirror behind the bar as he waves the bartender over for Coke before he drives me home. He's completely consumed by work and in a leadership position. After being burned by vulnerability in that role, I suspect he doesn't have many people he feels he can talk to. The boy needs a pressure relief valve.

"So what do you do, when you're not saving lives and slowly escorting gimpy people to comic book films?"

"Help my mates out, have a few drinks with them, catch up on the medical journals. Work out. Work on the flat a bit. Mostly I just come home, flip on the telly for a couple hours, have a beer, and pass out."

Seriously in need of a pressure relief value. Desperately.

"You don't read much?"

"Other than the journals, just the news really, sometimes I'll pick up one of Naz' Clancys or la Carres in the on-call room. They're alright, the Clancy's especially."

"You like the tech stuff?"

"Well, they're good stories too, but yeah I like the gadgets. I was a bit of a gear head when I was younger."

"You were into cars?"

"Motorcycles. A friend got me into riding dirt bikes when I was in college and I kept up with it for a while. I used to belong to a club, but their events and my days off coincided rarely. And things got complicated. I haven't ridden in ages. Poor thing is just sitting in my flat collecting dust. I probably should just sell it and get it out of the way."

Suddenly it falls into place: Emergency services + helicopters + motorcycles = adrenaline junkie. Now we're getting somewhere.

"You have your dirt bike in your living room?"

"Dining area really, but yeah."

"You are not selling it. You need to go riding. In fact, after tonight you're not seeing me until you do."

"What?"

I break into my best North Carolina NASCAR accent. "Y'need to get some mud on them tires boy."

He blinks, probably at both the accent and what I am saying. "...The second part."

"Oh, I'm not going out with you again until you do," I reply simply.

He looks utterly perplexed. He looks at my drink, opens his mouth to say something, and then snaps it shut as he decides against it. A moment later he is glossing over my declaration by asking me about my recreational habits. The conversation carries us out to the car. In fact, it is not until we are halfway back to my place when he starts to ask, "What you said before..."

The squeal of tires ahead of us is followed familiar sounding BANG. I'm un-prying my nails from the car seat when I see Alec looking at me apologetically, starting to make an excuse.

"Go." I tell him.

He's gone, pulling a full blown ambulance-sized first aid kit from the boot and running to the scene. I follow at my own pace, stumping between the cars towards the intersection as a police car pulls up. _Is he a magnet for this stuff? "If you crash it he will come?"_ I have first aid training, but in my condition I figure I would only be in the way. So I lean against a street lamp and get a ring side seat to watch Alec move from car to car; calm, methodical, completely in his element. His voice that quiet combination of utter command and reassurance I had not heard since we met as he triages the victims before setting his kit down and going to work.

Sometimes we need to reminded how utterly groovy the people in our lives are.

I really hope he takes his bike out. I'd hate to never see him again.

…


	6. Chapter 6

Part VI

"You're serious?" Alec says over the phone a few days later. I hate doing this, because he's actually calling me from work to arrange a date afterward like a normal person.

"Hey, you're lucky I picked up. Consider this your one phone call," I say as I tilt back in my desk chair.

"Should I rattle my tin cup against the bars?"

"No, you should go riding."

"Why does this matter so much?"

"Because you're an adrenaline junkie, but you've wrapped it up completely in responsibility. You need to let off some steam. When you can bring me your mud stained jersey, then you can take me out again. Tell you what, even better, I'll cook. How that for incentive?"

"I don't know how you cook."

"Two years, professional chef."

"…There are planters in front of the main entrance. I could just rub a jersey in one of them," he says thoughtfully.

"You could, but then you would be a lying liar who lies and would live with the guilt for all eternity. Besides, I know what mud spatter looks like. Go riding."

"But what about…"

"Ride first, then talk. Then snogging. Then maybe something else. Until then, shoo." I hang up.

He does not try to call back and as the days stretch on I wonder if I've made a bigger gamble than I realized. So it is with a little relief I listen to his voicemail.

"I have the mud stained jersey, and my muscles are going are going to giving me hell for it tomorrow," he adds, muttering, before his voice picks up again. "So I demand my rightful prize." There an edge of weariness, but also a relaxed triumph in his voice.

He's even on time the next evening, standing in the door of my spartan but cozy apartment, filthy jersey and _The Spy Who Came In From the Cold_ in hand. I take the jersey over Pilot, who is wriggling against his shins in ecstasy that someone else exists to pet her, and make a show of skeptically examining it.

"Do I pass inspection? You look great. Your eyelashes are growing back." He leans over 58 pounds of boxer mix to give me a soft peck in greeting.

"Very. Pilot, sit." I blush that he noticed the returning eyelashes I had greeted with utter joy a few days ago.

"No, she's fine." He crouches down to pet her as she sits. "She's…what happened to your cast?"

"I took it off." I turn to hobble back towards the kitchen. "It got wet in the shower and was positively rank. I'll get a new one at the clinic tomorrow."

"How did you get it off?"

"With a breadknife."

"A breadknife," he says flatly.

I hear the door slam and turn to see Pilot looking curiously at an empty space.

"Alec?"

I see his car peel away from the curb as I reach the window. At first, I am miffed, Alec's ability to get walk away leaving me in confusion beginning to wear. But after a little bit it strikes me that I maybe have been coming at him a little high handed and that perhaps I've pushed too far. A happy _Kip_ can sometimes be an insufferable _Kip_. I try calling him but he does not pick up and in 40 minutes I have run over every conversation, every possible nuance of every word and gesture between us, until I'm sniffling over tupperware as I put dinner away.

When the door slams again.

After throwing a gym bag on the couch, he points next to it and tells me to "Sit." before he goes into the kitchen to rummage through my cabinets. I would consider asking him what he is looking for but his expression indicates death is imminent if he is pushed. Of course he would resuscitate me and take me to the hospital afterward, but then he would never speak to me again, which would be, I realize, much worse.

Even Pilot is staying away from him, trotting stealthily into the bedroom. I don't have that luxury.

The faucet runs while I hear Alec walk down the hall and back again.

He sets my largest saucepan, half full of water, on the heavy wooden coffee table and lays a towel at my feet. Then laying out, in precise order, the gloves, the scissors, the sock, the gauze, the casting material, and a plastic lined pad. Sitting on the coffee table in front of me, he takes a steadying breath as he pulls on the gloves. Then he takes my heel in his hands and begins.

He was furious with me a second ago, but now his touch is gentle assurance in smooth efficiency with a peaceful look on his face, a focus that is almost…contented. Outside the hospital, Alec is Alec. Fun to talk to, intelligent, warm, thoughtful and wise in his way with wry sense of humor. A gentle, though definitely masculine, presence. Sometimes the little nerd he used to be comes out, unsure, a little socially inept, and it's cute. But in the Hospital, on the street in the middle of mangled cars, and now he is relaxed and comfortable in his skin, completely in the moment. I realize that Alec has never shown the God-complex Doctors are so renowned for. This is not a part of his ego structure, it is him. He is doing what he was born to do.

His hands smooth over the new cast (yellow! I hate yellow and he knows it) and he holds it for a few moments to let it initially harden in the proper shape.

"Thank…"

I get a warning glance that makes me shrink into the couch a little.

"Did the cast get wet before or after you decided to shave your leg?"

"Before," I say defensively because, while it is true, being able to scrub that leg and shave it was an unholy bliss.

He says nothing but is clearly not convinced.

After the cast has set a bit, he props it up on the coffee table with a throw pillow, protected by the plastic, and cleans up. Further rummaging in the kitchen and he emerges with two glasses of wine and the bottle. And after a second trip with two plates of dinner, one of which he wordlessly hands to me. The other he takes to the side table at the far end of the couch where, after he pops the DVD in, he sits, eats, and completely ignores me.

I've been working on dinner for hours and now I'm suddenly not very hungry. After picking at my food, I sip my wine down, watching the recipes I spent years perfecting get wolfed down without comment five feet away.

Food has taken the edge off his scowl, but after taking both our plates into the kitchen he continues to ignore me. Sitting way over there.

About half way through the movie, I set my empty wineglass on the coffee table and I slide it across to him with my toes. Alec watches its slow progress across the table, the corner of his mouth starting to quirk upward. He refills it without comment and hands it back without making eye contact.

But he's smiling despite himself.

I take a drink and set the glass down again. "Are you going to stay over there the entire night?"

He clicks the TV off and looks at me. "You're impulsive, you're impatient, you're temperamental, you're pushy, you're stroppy, and you're stubborn."

"Uh huh."

He watches the remote he is flipping casually in his hand. "And I'm really glad I took the bike out."

"How was it?"

"Fantastic. I'd forgotten what it felt like to get out like that. I really needed it." Then he sighs, considering me with resigned amusement. "What am I going to do with you?"

It's an old joke but, "….I have a list."

The amusement turns suggestive as he chucks the remote onto the nearby chair and sides across the couch, taking the glasses from my face and setting them carefully on the side table behind me. "Mine first."

There is no sweet prelude to this. His lips move over mine sensually with the taste of wine and his autumn scent as we release the tension between us into what it was always meant to be: An elemental desire that takes my breath away. I unconsciously pull him closer, my hands running from his hair down his powerful back, tugging at his shirt.

But it isn't the kiss or the taste of his breath on my lips, the weight of his strong body against me, or even his hand grazing the swell of my breast as it travels downward, that sets the warmest places in my body alight as he pulls back for a moment to watch me react to his touch. It's the look in his eyes. They have gone grey, like the sky before an oncoming storm, but in those storm clouds there is a pure primal heat.

"It takes an hour for the cast to set, right?" I ask, surprised by how shaky my voice sounds as he start to wend a path up my neck with soft, warm kisses.

"Yes," he purrs into my ear, his hand splaying around my thigh as his thumb traces under the under the edge of my skirt, "…but I think you need to stay off it for the rest of the night."

He's so gentle to start, deft fingertips tracing lines of sparks across my skin, until my eager response informs him that I won't break and if after that we fall into the bed together, fulfilling with sweet fire (and a little laughter and ingenuity to work around cast) all the promise contained in his gaze, I think we can be forgiven for foregoing the rose petals and candlelight.

As the fire abates a sweat and delight filled hour and some-such later, maybe two, we lie quietly together. I savor his rich scent, the feel of his warm skin against my own, the hair on his calves against my toes (_Man-creature. *Purrrrr!*_), the sound of his breath as his chest rises and falls with it, as my eyes start to drift closed.

His aren't. _Pale blue now._ He's watching me with an expression that I can't read. At least not now, utterly sated and happy and drowsy. Good gawd, don't ask me to think now.

"Aren't you sleepy?" I ask sleepily.

"I have to go to work in a couple of hours," he murmurs. I make a regretful noise which elicits a warm smile as he lightly strokes my back. "You sleep."

I don't feel him get up from the bed, nor do I hear him leave.

Nor do I hear from him the next day. Or the next.

Or the next.

…


	7. Chapter 7

Part VII

I know it had been a while, but was I *that* bad?

I exercise my "woman you just slept with" rights and call once a couple days after the fact, leaving a casual message.

Still nothing.

That gawd damn son of a bitch.

I have work to do. That's what I keep telling myself, "I have work to do." And I do, and I do it, mauling Special Collections in a blitzkrieg of research.

And if I have a few moments where a tear or two is shed or something is thrown against a wall or I'm scribbling terrible maudlin poetry, that's my business.

I'm deep in the throwing things stage when, ten days later, his number pops up on my cell. I stare at it as it rings a few times, and then throw it at the couch.

"Stew you bastard!"

And limp into my study, trying to maintain my state of high dudgeon. I let the anger set in and congeal into a hard mass, ignoring three more phone calls over the next two days. I don't pick up my voicemail.

That lasts until I open my front door to find him standing there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, an utterly sheepish expression on his face looking for all the world like a six foot, two inch boy apologizing for breaking a window with a baseball.

Damn it.

"Can I come in?"

I say nothing, struggling between hitting him and...I don't know what. He hunches his shoulders as if reading the former impulse.

"It was really shitty of me not to ring you earlier. I'm sorry."

"You think?"

He takes the hit. "Can we talk? Please?"

I sigh and hobble away from the door, shooing Pilot back into the bedroom and shutting the door after her. I turn to him, drumming my fingers against the wall.

"I'm sorry."

"You've said that." Nothing else is forthcoming so I continue, "Look, we're both busy, we both have our own lives, and understanding what you came out of in your last relationship I have just rolled with this little dance you are doing, but now I need to know. What the *hell*, Alec!"

He holds his hands out as if to fend off my temper. "I know you are angry and you have every right to be, but could we just sit down and talk about this?"

I sit on the chair catty-cornered to the couch where he sits, an end table between us. It my turn to glower as he rests his elbows on his knees and tries very hard to put his explanation rationally.

"You remember I told you a couple of weeks ago that I went to visit a friend, helped him with his roof?" I nod. "Well, that wasn't the entire truth. Mark, I've known him since residency actually, but that is beside the point." He shakes off the nervous blather. "Mark works for the GMC."

"General Medical...Commission?"

"Council."

"I could have said it was a truck."

He lets the bad joke pass with only a brief vexed look. "Mark advised through the mess I told you about, when my first team broke up. He helped me keep my job. So after you and I met for coffee and I realized I was interested in pursuing something with you, a former patient, no matter how briefly you were a patient, I did treat you, I went to talk to him. Which I paid for by helping him with this roof," he adds wryly.

"And what did he say?"

"Well, after asking me why I couldn't meet a girl in a pub like a normal bloke, he said we're in a fuzzy area. You were not my patient by choice and you did not reveal any personal information to me beyond the extent of your injuries. I did not mention that you said you were attending Greenwich," he scratches the back of his head guiltily as he sits back. "But if someone wanted to make trouble over it, they could."

"Someone...meaning me."

"Yes." He rushes ahead to forestall my response. "You have to understand, this is my medical license. My life. When I came close to losing my job, what would I do if lost my license to practice was a question I naturally asked myself. And I…I couldn't come up with an answer." He looks inward. "Sure there are loads of jobs in the NHS I could find, but...I could not even begin to know who I would be if that happened."

"I know that."

"Do you?" His attention flicks outward again with a piercing look.

"Yes I do. Do you think I have been around you, seen what you do, and haven't noticed how much it fulfills you, the person you become when a life is in your hands? Look, Alec, I could sit here all day and reassure you that I would never hurt you in that way, that until you brought it up it had not even crossed my mind, but the only way to trust someone is to trust them. I think Hemingway said that."

"You hate Hemingway."

"Well, everyone is right at least once in their life." I rub the bridge of my nose in frustration. "I looked up the rules about doctors and patients dating the day after I got out of hospital, but I figured you knew those rules better than I did and that you had made a choice."

"Well...I hadn't," he admits, picking an invisible piece of lint off the arm of the couch.

"What?"

"Every time before I saw you, I kept telling myself, "She is going to do something or say something, and you'll know this was a mistake, that you don't have to go any further. You've tested the waters and you don't have to risk it." Only...that didn't happen."

I'm struggling to suppress a whoop of joy and the laughter of relief as those last three words sink in. "So you're saying you were conducting our dates as experiments?"

"Aren't all dates?" he rationalizes.

"Should I be asking about the control group?"

He gives me an _Oh shut up_ look before he continues. "And then you made me take the bike out, when I would have taken you out. You know, most women want to be more in your life when you start dating, not less."

"I know the assumption is based on the impeccable male logic that all women have breasts ergo all women are the same, but contrary to the order of the Universe, we're not. I'm not saying that I don't want more than what we have now. I'm just not interested in everything. I know I can't be everything, besides work, to you and you can't be everything to me. We would both go miserably insane if we tried."

"What do you want?"

"I want to spend time with you. Once a week would be great if you want it spelled out contractually, though obviously I can understand if something comes up, either work for you, school for me, or just a having our own lives, and occasionally we go a couple weeks between seeing one another. Monogamy would also be spelled out. Respect, friendship, honesty, affection, the usual. Communication would be a necessary write in, I can see. Beyond that, everything is negotiable."

He makes the appearance of mulling over this for a moment, "Alright. Get over here." He takes my hand and pulls me into his lap. I know we have not gotten to the real root of the problem, that Alec's fears about his medical license, while real, are covering up something else, but he's come far enough for now. Especially since his kisses are driving every thought from my head again.

After a while he growls in regretful frustration, covering the growling of his stomach, as he drops a light kiss on my neck before pulling back. "It is very tempting to kick Pilot out of the bedroom, but truth be told I came here right after my shift ended and I'm starving."

"Oh good..." I put my glasses back on. "…because you're going to be paying for this one for a while. You can start with dinner."

The food is Thai, the wine white, the restaurant cozy. Candles on the table would make up for lost romantic time, if we weren't too busy squeezing the zest from the orange peels of our complimentary dessert through the flame to make sparks.

"Do you miss living in the country? No, thank you." I say, waving off formal dessert.

*Fssst* A small shower of little flames blooms from the candle as he shakes his head at the waiter before sitting back in his chair. "Well, it's home. I go up there to visit the family, kick over some old stones, but I don't think I could live there again."

"Why not? Last one." *Fsst*

"Too quiet. It's a great place to recharge, and it was fantastic as a kid…"

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. I grew up on the edge of a nature preserve. What boy could ask for more?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. The Rutland Water, well, the west end of it, is part of the Wildlife Trust. Birds are the big thing, lots of migratory species, but there's woods with stoats, foxes, and fishing and swimming of course. We were all over that place, hauling all kinds of stuff back to the house. Plants, insects, snakes, injured animals, the occasional carcass for dissection," he says with an embarrassed cringe.

"Where it was promptly rejected, I take it."

"Most of the time not, actually. Mum and Dad were pretty cool about their kids being into science and encouraged it. The necropsies did have to stay out in the shed, however, with a very limited duration of residence. My sister actually teaches it now in Leicester. Biology."

"So why aren't you teaching biology somewhere?"

"Why did I go into medicine? You know, that's usually one of the first things people ask."

"I didn't want to be boring, besides I came to realize you did not go into medicine so much as the two of you found each other. But c'mon then, let's have the Official Story."

""The Official Story?"" he laughs.

""The Official Story" The one you wrote for your entrance essay. The one you tell at charity functions and parties when some cute young thing asks, "So why did you become a doctor?"" I fold my hands under my chin and bat my eyelashes at him.

""The Official Story." Well, "officially" I was eleven, and Em and I were heading home from the Water late, worried about getting an ear bashing for holding up dinner, when we hear this odd noise. This weird thump. A few hundred yards further on we see this car, a yellow 1970's monstrosity, sitting on its top in the middle of the road. The driver had taken the curve too fast and rolled the car off the embankment."

"Was he o.k.?"

"He was out cold and bleeding. I know now it wasn't serious, but you know what head wounds are like. I thought he was going to die. And the car was in the middle of the road. I was terrified someone was going to drive through that blind curve and smash into it. I sent Em on to get the help, and from there…I didn't know what to do. All I could think was "I'm not big enough to get the driver out". So I just stood there staring at it…until I heard a noise from the rear seat. I went round and crawled under the boot, the rear window had been blown out, and there was this little girl there. She couldn't have been more than seven."

"Oh no."

"No, she was fine. She was just sitting there on the ceiling of the cab in her school pinafore. Not a hair out of place in her black ponytail, and big brown eyes. She wasn't even crying. I know now she was in shock, but then….She didn't say anything, she just stared. I just remember the look in her eyes, haunted. It was years before I could put the right word to it, but she looked haunted, like the accident had taken a piece of her."

"What did you do?"

"I reached in and took her hand and told her everything was going to be alright."The Ambulance was coming. Everything will be alright." I didn't know what else to do. This little girl staring at me like her soul is missing and I didn't know what else to do."

"And you really hated that feeling."

"I still hate that feeling," he says ruefully, draining the last of his wine. "I try to feel it as little as possible."

"Yet no one can have all the answers all the time."

"I can try," he replies with quiet conviction. "Barring that, in trauma you do not have the luxury of being indecisive. If choices present themselves, you pick one and commit to it, now. So even if you don't know what to do, you know what you are doing."

"But why medicine? There are other fields in which you could have had the answers."

"Not that mattered to me. It's a really boring answer for an entrance essay, "I always wanted to be a doctor," but I never imagined anything else. I can't even imagine getting locked up in a hospital doing research. I know it matters in the long run, that advances in the lab help me in the field, but when your choices are: "I can help people that need my help right now" or "I can sit in a lab and hope by the time I retire I've done something to help medicine in general," to me there is no choice."

"And jumping out of helicopters is cool."

"And jumping out of helicopters is *very* cool." He says with wicked grin.

"Can I ask a hopelessly self-absorbed question?"

"Go ahead." His eyes narrow warily.

"Did I give you "that feeling"?"

He considers me carefully for a moment, his eyes silvery grey in the candlelight as he brushes a lock of hair back from my face. "You did," he says softly.

"And now you know what to do?"

"No. But I do know what I am doing."

And there's that smile again.

~fin~


End file.
